The first time I ever drank tequila was back in October of 1987. My roommate and I had gone over to a friend of his apartment to drink tequila. I don’t remember how much I had, I just remember laying on the floor of her apartment, hoping that I wouldn’t puke. The next day, I was walking back to my dorm room from class when I saw a fire, just across the street from campus. “Hey!” I thought. “Isn’t that where Ginger’s apartment is?” (Ginger being the gal on whose floor I’d spent much of the previous evening.)
So I run to try and get a good look, and sure enough, its Ginger’s apartment that’s burning. Thankfully, Ginger wasn’t at home when the fire broke out, though her female cat, Mr. Ed wasn’t as fortunate. I took that as a sign from the gods not to touch the stuff again.
And I hadn’t, until last night. Yesterday, I went with a buddy and his fiancee to look at some property her parents had given them as an engagement present. We spent the day hiking it and figuring out the best places and ways for them to build their dream house. Then we went back to his place, ordered some Chinese, and he offered me a shot of tequila. Now, he knew what happened the last time I’d had tequila as I’d told him about it, so I said that I wouldn’t be held responsible for anything that happened and I had a shot.
At some point, he and I finished the fifth and I passed out. I woke up on the floor this morning with a blanket over me. As I lay there on the floor, I felt my gut talking to me. I’ve got irritable bowel, so when my gut starts talking to me, there’s all kinds of strange sensations that go on. I figure I gotta take a shit and get up to go take a dump.
I get into the bathroom and realize that, no, I don’t have to take a shit, because its going to come out the other end. I make a rather violent offering in the holy recepticle for the great gods Ralph and Huey. Gasp for breath, flush the toilet, and proceed to offer up another sacrifice. Eventually, the thirst of the gods was quenched and I staggered out of the bathroom, found some flat Sprite in the refridgerator and used that to wash some of the taste out of my mouth.
Exactly one hour later, the gods call for another sacrifice. So I make another offering of leftover Chinese food with a Sprite chaser. Then I realize that I’ve got to shit. Naturally, the first thing that runs through my mind is: Okay, what happens if both ends decide to unload at the same time? I mean, I wouldn’t care if I repainted my own bathroom, but this is someone else’s. Thankfully, I managed to get the lower end cleared before the upper end decided that it needed to unload once more.
After that, I decide that I’d like to go home. The floor’s not comfortable, and when I’m sick, I want to be in my bed, not someplace else. Problem is, I didn’t drive and I’m in no shape to walk the four miles back to my place. Can’t call anyone to come pick me up as they’re all at work, or wouldn’t know how to find the place. So I pound on dude’s door, hoping to wake him up, though the gutted twelve pack of beer in the fridge that hadn’t been there when the evening began told me the odds of this being possible were pretty slim. Sure enough, I hear his fiancee mumble a bit and get no response. While I’m trying to figure out what to do, the gods demand another sacrifice.
This time its nothing but bile. “Oh shit!” I think, and remember what happened the first time I’d gotten food poisoning. I spent most of that morning curled up around the toilet, barfing at exact intervals. At first it was every fifteen minutes, then every half hour, then every hour, until it finally quit. Of course, that time I’d emptied the contents of my stomach rather quickly and the rest of the time was spent with wracking dry heaves.
Sure enough, my gut starts trying to fling itself out my mouth, shortly after this. Thankfully, however, the attempt is short lived, and I only spend another half-hour trying to do an impression of a sea cucumber fleeing from a predator.
Finally, around one PM, dude and his finacee get up. I’m practically in tears with joy at the thought of being able to go home and curl up in my own bed. I explain my morning to him and instead of saying, “Yeah, let’s get you home.” He says, “Let me get a shower, we’ll get some breakfast and you’ll feel better.” Huh? Breakfast is not going to make me feel better! Breakfast is the last thing I want! I want my bed!
Still, there’s no reasoning with him, at this point, I realize, because he and his finacee are all snuggly and giggly and excited at the thought of the two of them taking a shower together (like they hadn’t done this thousands of times before). Well, at least, I think, the worst is over and I will be able to get out of here soon.
I was wrong. Dude turns on the TV while his fiancee putters around the house doing this and that before they get into the shower. Dude doesn’t have cable, and there’s not too much on broadcast TV in the early afternoon in Nashville. What comes on the screen when he clicks the remote? Crossing Over with John Edwards. If I hadn’t spent the previous hours empting the contents of my stomach, I’d have bazooka barfed all over the screen at this point.
Thankfully, the two of them bounced into the shower shortly after this and I could content myself by staring at Jay Jay the Jet Plane and some animal show starring two gay brothers on PBS.
If anyone ever offers me tequila again, I’ll puke all over them! I knew that there was a reason I liked scotch.
